Sherlock: Through the Haze
by Sherlock Holmes of 221B
Summary: It's been two years since John Watson lost his best friend and roommate. Despite what Sherlock did, John is determined to honor his memory. But how will everything change once the past catches up with him?
1. Chapter 1

Sherlock: Through the Haze (Chapter 1)

_*I do not own Sherlock, please do not steal. Follow me if you like it :)*_

John was sitting in a chair, in his flat. 221B Baker Street had long since lost some of its former popularity since its celebrity tenant had taken his leave. Despite the time that had passed since the tragedy, John had still not gotten over losing Sherlock. The pain of it plagued him way too often, with almost everything reminding him of his departed flatmate. John was scarred by it. Traumatized. He wasn't feeling pained at that moment, though. In fact, he wasn't feeling anything. He was drifting on cloud nine, needle in hand, oblivious to everything. He was reveling in the pain-free state of bliss he was experiencing. The gateway into nothingness. No pain. No suffering. No nothing. A little while later, the effects began wearing off. He returned to an alert state after a little while more, when the phone rang. Gathering himself, he picked up the phone.

"What is it?" he asked, knowing that it was probably Lestrade. "Hey, we've got a tough case and were hoping you could come in and help us?" John wore a small smile before whispering, "I'll be right over." He hung up, smiling to himself. Despite the pain it inspired, John was determined to honor Sherlock's memory. He had taken his place as Consulting Detective and honed his observation and detection skills. He was getting pretty good, but he still had nothing on Sherlock. His heart sunk a bit at the thought, but he just shook himself and moved past it. He went out, and hailed a cab. He then got in, giving the driver the address, and going through his bag and pulling out a blue scarf, reminiscent of the one Sherlock used to wear. With a small smile, he put it on just like Sherlock used to do. He was also wearing Sherlock's old coat. It was one of the few things he had decided to keep when they were deciding what to do with all of Sherlock's old stuff.

Soon, they got to Scotland Yard. After paying the driver, he got out and walked inside. Unlike Sherlock used to be, John Watson was well liked at Scotland Yard. The greetings he got were friendly, not forced, and Lestrade looked absolutely delighted to see him. "Thank you for coming, John." Lestrade said, clapping a hand on John's shoulder. "After you cracked the last case, we decided you'd probably be able to be consulted for future cases. You're on a good path. Just be careful... It _is _a dangerous path, John. We know that." he said, meaningfully. John shuffled uncomfortably, before saying, "I can learn from his mistakes and refrain from making them." Lestrade looked mollified. "Follow me. We've got to get you the files, and then we'll go to Bart's so you can look at the body." he said, and turned around and began walking toward his office. John followed, and once they got to his office, Lestrade plucked a folder from the top of a pile of papers on his desk. "Here are the files. Do you want to look over them now, or go see the body first?"

John took the folder, and answered, "I'd like to see the body first. My theory needs to be formed from it first and foremost, thereby reducing the amount of bias I will have in observing it." With a smile, he led the way outside. They both got into Lestrade's car, and headed over to Bart's. They got out upon arriving and headed straight for the morgue_. _Lestrade led him to the body. "Well, have a look, John." he said, gesturing to the body. John walked over to the body. He didn't recognize the man, which was for the best. After a moment, he got everything he needed. "Thank you, Lestrade. Once I get back from work, I'll look into it further." he said, and turned to leave. Lestrade was used to it by now. He knew John only did this to remember Sherlock, and made it just a hobby. John had a real job, though, that took priority. As John left, Lestrade returned to Scotland Yard. Nothing of interest occurred after they all dispersed.

* * *

Sherlock was sitting in the flat he'd called home ever since the fall. He'd been hiding ever since the whole thing, wanting to avoid anyone unfriendly. If they figured out he'd survived before he could be absolutely sure that it had blown over completely, John, Lestrade, and Mrs. Hudson would all die. No doubt Moriarty had said in no uncertain terms that if Sherlock survived, somehow, his friends were to be killed. So he'd cut his hair, dyed it, changed his style to casual, changing his voice, and went into hiding. He hadn't been recognized, and he even had an ordinary job. Of course, over the course of the past year and a half, there had been cases he'd been tempted to step into, but he kept himself from doing so. A source of his informed him that Lestrade had mixed emotions over the whole ordeal. He wasn't about to reveal his presence to someone who might arrest him the second he returned. None of it mattered to him at the moment, though, as he was reading a very good book, and was immersed in it. It'd been recommended to him, and he figured he'd go ahead and try it. He was really enjoying "Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone", despite the fact that it was highly unlikely, illogical, and about _magic_. He didn't have anything better to do, so the reading got a lot of his focus. Though he didn't like the concept of a magic school and how unlikely it all was, it was written very well. He read about two chapters in twenty minutes, before marking his page and setting it down. His messenger would be calling soon.

Sure enough, his phone vibrated, indicating a text. Reading it, he saw the message. "I'm coming right over with the news about John." His messenger had sent it, and had always arrived five minutes after sending the text in the past. Sherlock tapped his foot, glancing over at the violin he'd gotten a few weeks back, and waited for his messenger. As always, five minutes after the text had arrived, a knock rapped on his door. Promptly, he got up to let the man inside. The man had dark blond hair, with stunningly blue eyes, and was tall. He had a lanky build, and was wearing casual attire; jeans and a t-shirt. He was also wearing a long coat, which Sherlock knew to carry a handgun, in case of emergencies. "Come in, sit down." Sherlock said politely, gesturing inside. The man came in, glancing around. "Sherlock, you keep this place unnaturally clean." he said. Sherlock shrugged. "It doesn't really matter, Alex. If anyone comes over, I don't want them to see anything private, and that's the only stuff that gets cluttered." he said callously. Alex sniffed a bit, rubbing his nose. "Well let's be quick, as I believe I am catching a cold. I've typed up an official report, but in general, I will tell you that your old friend is not coping well with your 'death'. He is much more upset, much more easily upset, and shows all the signs of resorting to some drug or another to cope. Some of my eyes have even told me that they fear that Watson may commit suicide to escape the pain. It has been two years. It would be prudent for you to reveal yourself to him." Sherlock sat down, and shifted a bit. "I don't know. I have no idea how long it would take for them to be out of danger. The gunmen might still be around. However... if they're concerned he'll kill himself, I'll go." Sherlock said, standing back up. "I'll come out with you. If John knows, everyone should know. Let me get dressed first, though. I must be recognized if I return."

Alex waited in the living room while Sherlock changed in the restroom. Sherlock left his hair unbrushed, making it reminiscent of his old hair, and had taken a few minutes to dye it back to its original color... Sherlock had bought the dye in case he'd ever want to come back. He was dressed in the clothes he had not worn in so very long, and looked almost exactly like he had two years ago, except his hair was shorter. "Sorry for the wait. I wanted to be completely recognizable." he said, after walking out and looking at Alex. Saying nothing, Alex gave him a reproachful look, before standing. "Well, now that you're finally out here, let's go." he said. They walked outside. So far, everyone seemed to have forgotten Sherlock Holmes. Glancing around to see if anyone recognized him, he hailed a streetcar. That was when he saw someone across the street gasp and cover their mouth with their hands. "OH MY GOD, IT'S SHERLOCK HOLMES!" they shouted, dropping their bags. It was a woman who was wearing a plaid skirt suit, with white-blond hair. Others looked curiously at Sherlock upon this remark, slight recognition in their faces. A streetcar finally pulled up. "221B Baker Street." he told the driver after him and Alex had both gotten in. Sherlock soon came upon the flat he had called home before James Moriarty had taken it from him.

"He's in there?" Sherlock whispered to Alex, who had gotten out and was standing next to him now, looking at the door. "Yes. He'll be in there. Now, I'll be on my way. Be tactful in confronting him. You tore him up; he might be unstable or angry when you come back to him." Alex replied, his eyes sliding from the door to Sherlock. "I must take my leave. I would ask that you take caution in your return. Don't get too much publicity too fast." he said, and returned to the streetcar. As it drove away, Sherlock prepared mentally for what was to come. With a deep breath, he opened the door and made his way inside.


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock: Through the Haze (Chapter 2)

_*I do not own Sherlock. Please do not steal. If you like it, please follow me. :)*_

John was sitting inside his flat. After a long day of working, he was relieved to finally get some peace. Everyone had been wanting something from him today. People were coming up to him and trying to strike a conversation. Then again, that happened a lot. He was popular both at Scotland Yard and in his job. People came up to him in both places, sometimes talking to him weeks after their last conversation as though nothing had happened. He was a people magnet; people randomly liked him. It was exhausting, and the reason he was currently sitting on his couch, doing nothing. He heard someone coming up the stairs, and assumed it was Mrs. Hudson. "Would you like some tea?" he said, without looking behind him. He waited for her to come in, not wanting to get up until she came in.

* * *

Sherlock had walked up the stairs, not wanting to attract attention, and finally reached the top. He heard John who had said "Would you like some tea?" Clearly, John thought he was Mrs. Hudson. He opened the door and stepped inside, making sure to close the door behind him. "If you've got tea, I'd love some." he said quietly. He saw John stiffen, and heard him gasp. Then, John stood up, slowly, and turned around. John looked at him, studied him, looking for any sign that he might not be Sherlock. He couldn't seem to find one. "HOW THE _HELL _ARE YOU HERE RIGHT NOW?" John shouted. When Sherlock said nothing, John took slow steps and closed the space between them. He reached a hand out and touched Sherlock on the shoulder. He clapped Sherlock's shoulder, knowing he could. John went pale, when his eyes fluttered shut and he collapsed. Sherlock, not expecting that reaction, caught John before he could fall to the floor. He carried John to his respective bedroom, and covered him with a blanket. When he walked back out to the living room, he saw a coat and scarf exactly like his hanging on a coat rack. He also saw his old violin. Ghost-like, he reached out to touch it.

* * *

John woke up in his bed. So the day... Had it been a dream? The darkness outside, did it show that it was really early, or that it was really late? That's when the sound of the violin registered. John let out a small scream, and ran out to see. It was Sherlock, in the flesh, just as he remembered him (except the hair... he cut it), playing the violin just like he used to. As Sherlock looked up, he noticed John, and ceased playing. He put the violin down, and walked over to John. "Hello John... I'm not dead." he said, slightly nervously. John studied Sherlock. Unexpectedly, John suddenly brought his fist back, and then forward, punching Sherlock hard in the face. Sherlock stumbled back, grabbing the offended area. His nose began to bleed, as he attempted to stem the flow. John shook his hand, with a deep breath. "I feel better now. How the _hell _are you alive? And what are you doing here _now_, after _two bloody years?!" _He shouted at Sherlock. Sherlock could not answer, however, as his nose was flowing heavily with blood. With a sigh, John walked away, and returned a minute later with a tissue. "When you're able to speak clearly, without bleeding out, will you please tell me how you're alive, where you've been, and why you've stayed away for two years just to come back now?"

Sherlock felt his way over to a chair, holding the tissue to his bleeding nose. Steadying himself, he sat down. "I wasn't expecting that." Sherlock muttered in a muffled voice. "Gah... I'm lucky the blood didn't get on my clothes... I _just _changed..." John sat down in the chair across from him, waiting expectantly. "If you were alive after all this time, you could've come back... Why did you stay away? Did you think you couldn't trust me?" John said, his eyes burning as memories flashed through his head of the whole affair. "Please, don't do that again..." he said. Sherlock's nose finally stopped bleeding. Pulling his hand away from his face to be sure, he rested it on his knee. "I _had _to stay away. Moriarty knew my weak spot from the moment we met. He used it against me, and I do not have the right to put my life before three others, or even just one. It's not in my place to do it. I had to do what I did for three people." he muttered. "I had to make sure the whole affair blew over before I came back. I have no doubt that Moriarty said in no uncertain terms that even if he died, if I survived, my friends were to be killed. I _had _to stay away." John looked thoughtful for a moment. "Who did he threaten?" he asked softly, already suspecting the answer. "He threatened you, John. Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson as well." Sherlock replied. "Okay, I see then." John said after a long pause.

"Can you forgive me for doing that to you, and for staying away for so long? I trust you'll understand me when I say I couldn't risk it. Plus... Moriarty's body was never buried. I'm thinking that either someone took his body, or he did what I did and faked his death. Thus far, I have no leads, but I did not know what to do. All I knew was that there are some people who are worried you'll kill yourself to escape the pain of it. I couldn't let you do that, and have to live with the guilt of it." Sherlock said, and put his face in his hands. "God, you have no idea how it's been... Having to watch your struggle at a distance, possibly see you around town but never be able to say hello... It pained me. It was my fault, I know. But I did it for the good of people other than myself." John nodded, running a hand over his face and through his hair. "I've been honoring your memory." John muttered. "I took your place as Consulting Detective. I got pretty good, I think... Nothing on you, but still. Lestrade calls upon me, and people at Scotland Yard seem to still be fairly fond of me. If I'd known you were alive, I could've done my job full time." Sherlock wore a confused look on his face as he tilted his head. With a befuddled look on his face, Sherlock said, "I've come back from the dead after two years, telling you that you might still be in danger, and you're concerned about your job?" John's face glowed crimson as he replied, "Well yes... But I was _only _doing it to honor you... If I'd known you were alive, I would not have bothered..." He looked down, glowing even brighter. "Wrong." Sherlock replied lazily. John looked up, the flush disappearing from his face. "Wrong?" he asked, taken aback. "Yes, wrong. You'd have done it even if you knew I was alive because you would want to keep the Consulting Detective alive in the work. You'd still do it for me, just in another way." Sherlock said. John stood up. "I'm going over to Scotland Yard, to let them know I'm not going to be doing this anymore. Will you come?" he asked. Sherlock thought about it for a moment. "Fine, but if he tries to arrest me, I'm going to run." John wore a frown, but stood. "Let's go, then."

* * *

As Sherlock went outside with John, he hailed a cab just like he used to. A cab pulled up, and Sherlock got in first. He looked sideways as his old roommate got in after him. "Scotland Yard." John told the driver. To avoid a scene, Sherlock had not said anything. He thought he was running a big enough risk getting a cab, without saying anything. Being recognized by voice would be bad, and was entirely possible. They finally, after several minutes, came upon Scotland Yard. They got out of the cab, and stood stock-still, just looking at the building. "Are you ready?" John asked Sherlock. Sherlock replied with a nod. Bracing himself, Sherlock followed John inside. At first, everyone greeted John, but didn't look up. A few moments later, though, people actually looked up and saw Sherlock. The reactions varied, as did the severity thereof. They passed Donovan and Anderson along the way as well. They looked scared, surprised and disgusted all at once. Sherlock was able to take a little comfort in that... From what he'd heard, they hadn't been sorry to see the back of him.

They soon found themselves at Lestrade's office. John went in first. "Hello, Lestrade. I have something to tell you." he said hesitantly. Lestrade looked up. "Ah, hello John. What is it you need to..." he trailed off, having finally seen Sherlock. He stood up ghostlike, and went to clap a hand on Sherlock's shoulder. Seeing that he wasn't a ghost, he said, "That's not possible. You were dead; we had the body." Sherlock shrugged, stepping inside the office. "It's been a while. Two years, yes? But not a dent in the time we've known each other." he said. "Are you going to arrest me, or are you going to listen to my tale of consulting criminals and angered journalists?" Lestrade hesitated. "I suppose we've got to hear what you've got to say first." He gestured to a chair in front of his desk, and sat down in his own. "So, tell me the truth. What happened?" Sherlock nodded, preparing to tell his tale.

"At the Moriarty trial, a journalist named Kitty Riley cornered me in the bathroom. She wanted an interview, but I refused her. After I said to her, 'You repel me,' she was likely angered, and she had the story Moriarty had fed her as Richard Brook. Don't believe that Richard Brook is a false alias? Think about what you know about Moriarty, and then consider that in german, 'Rich Brook' is 'Reichenbach'. The case that made my name. Anyway, moving on. The first time we met face to face, he said that if I didn't stop 'prying', he'd burn me. After he was freed, having gotten my entire life's story from someone who knew me well, he began to play. The trial was an advertisement, meant to let people know what he would do. He came to visit, to warn me that it would all burn soon. The case that made you all believe I was a fake was meant to discredit me. He wanted it to be solved, and made it so that when the girl saw me, she would scream. He wanted me to burn. He knew I'd solve it, with my 'finesse' that would be so unbelievable after the scream, and knew that you would all cease to believe me. We met on top of Bart's the morning after I ran away from you lot. All of his plans, all of the information he'd been hiding, came out. We talked, and he was disappointed that it was so easy to beat me in the end. He told me to jump. You know I wouldn't have done it, but he threatened three of the closest people to me." he gave Lestrade a meaningful look with that last statement. "But I told him I still had a way out. He shot himself. Everything was set for me to fake my death. All that was left was the actual act... I jumped, and the deed was done. I faked my death." he finished.

Lestrade looked thoughtful. "Can anyone attest to this?" he asked. "I can attest to bits and pieces of it." John interjected. "Not all of it, because his stubborn arse likes to be mysterious, but pieces." Lestrade hesitated again. "I suppose there's not really anything against you anymore... Fine, I won't arrest you." he said finally. Sherlock flashed a gracious smile. "Oh, make sure Donovan and Anderson know it would have never been that easy to get rid of me." he said with a charming wink, and turned away. "Sherlock?" Lestrade stopped him. As Sherlock turned back, Lestrade continued. "Welcome back and... be more careful, would you?" Sherlock nodded, and left. "Come on John." he said as John fell behind him. As he passed Donovan and Anderson, they were both looking stonily at him. With a wink, he continued on callously. When he got outside with John, he hailed a cab, allowing John to enter first. As he got in and closed the door, he checked his phone for anything new. His phone had been quite quiet since his death, and once Sherlock got home, he would have to begin rebuilding his website. If he was going to come back, he'd do it with a bang. _Hm, that's odd... _he thought, checking his phone. He'd have thought that someone would have tested him. Shrugging, he put it out of his mind. He remained calm and vacant until they pulled up to 221B Baker Street. He paid the driver, and got out of the cab, followed by John.

Visibly, there was something wrong with this picture. The door of 221B Baker Street was opened, but the paint was chipped at the lock like someone had pried it open. Running the tips of his fingers over the lock and the chipped paint, he slowly pushed the door open. "Sherlock..." John said, noticing what Sherlock had seen immediately. "Has someone broken in?" he whispered. Sherlock said nothing, but stepped inside. He made his way slowly and silently up the stairs, an ascent that seemed to take ages. Finally, he reached the top, followed by John. Their door was cracked open, an eerie sight. As he pushed it open, he saw a figure in the chair, waiting for him.

"Welcome back, Mr. Holmes."


	3. Chapter 3

Sherlock: Through the Haze (Chapter 3)

_*I do not own Sherlock. Do not steal. If you like, please follow :)*_

Sherlock was frozen in the doorway, his eyes locked on the figure that sat so calmly on his couch. He had no idea who this man was, despite all of the observations he had made about him. The scene changed, though, when John pushed his way past Sherlock, his eyes filled with loathing and locked on the same person. "You!" he spat. "What are _you _doing here?" Sherlock's eyes darted from the man to John. "You know him, then." he said. "How do you know him?" John took an angry breath. "He works for Moriarty; he's the one who brought me to the pool and decked me out with enough explosives to take out a city block." Sherlock's eyebrows raised in surprise. "Well what are you doing here now?" he asked, though he feared he knew the answer. It was too much of a coincidence that the day Sherlock returned, one of Moriarty's men broke in.

The man stood, linking his hands behind his back. "Well you see, Mr. Holmes, I have a problem." he said, rocking back and forth on his feet. Sherlock looked at him expectantly. "I'm listening." The man stopped, standing still. "Well you see, I have a dead man walking and I was told to kill his friends if he didn't die." he continued coolly. Sherlock said nothing, his expression stoney. "That, and the same man led to the death of my boss. You could say that when my boss died, I would've wanted personal revenge on the one responsible. So imagine my surprise and my _luck _and my _joy_ when I find that he survived, and I know all the ways to make him suffer." the man continued, nonchalant. "You were right to stay away, Mr. Holmes. You should not have come back. I'd ask you to prepare yourself. I'm coming for you, and I am going to take much pleasure in making you suffer for what you've done." The man's voice had taken on a serious tone by then. He then held his hand out. "My name is Sebastian Moran, in case you were wondering. I was James Moriarty's favorite sniper." he said with a smirk. Sherlock slowly, and calmly, shook his hand. "No need to introduce myself, as you already know me." Sherlock replied. "Very well. I know everything about you. I'd tell you to run, but if you do, I or one of the snipers who've come into my power since my boss's death will shoot you dead. Probably not your best line of action, but it _is _one way to get the job done." Sebastian said, releasing Sherlock's hand. Without another word, he turned around and left.

"That's not good. That is very, _very _not good." John said, putting his hands on his face and shaking his head. "You _just _got back, couldn't he have left you alone for a little while?" Sherlock shook his head. "I foresaw this. There was bound to be someone watching the place in case I survived. They saw me die, but they recognized that I was clever... They would always have been ready. I'd tread carefully if I were _you, _John. Didn't you catch that one suggestive detail? 'I know everything about you.' He was referring to you, John; he was just doing it in a very vague way. We ought to take his advice and brace ourselves. There's no telling when he'll make his move. We have to have one ahead of time to defend ourselves." Sherlock replied. "You saw it coming?! You saw it coming, and instead of keeping _your _best interests in mind, you just thought, 'Oh, I'll visit John after two years, even though someone will try to kill me once they see I'm back, no big deal!' Well? Why'd you come back, knowing you'd probably get targeted again?!" John said, frustrated. Sherlock didn't reply. A change had wrought in his posture, and he was giving off an air of sadness. "Sherlock..." John said, unnerved. "I know that it's not what I said that did that. Not by itself. What haven't you told me?" Sherlock took a deep breath.

"I don't think you understand what it was like for me to have stayed away for two years." he said solemnly. "I've had to have people keep an eye on you, make sure you were safe. All because _I couldn't do it. _I had to stay away. By trying to protect you, I would've put you on the line. I could not risk my presence being known until it was absolutely necessary. That, and a few of my eyes were concerned about your state. I didn't want you to do anything that would be my fault, could I stop it. I had to come back... They feared for what you would do. For instance..." he trailed off, and picked up a needle off the table closest to them. "Resorting to drugs to cope with the pain." John blushed heavily. It was clear he hadn't wanted Sherlock to notice that. "That wouldn't have brought you back now, though, because I've been doing those for a while. What was it? What did they learn? What were they concerned about?" John asked, nervous. "They were afraid you were finally starting to consider suicide, to escape the pain the drugs," he held up the needle, "wouldn't get rid of." John looked down determinedly, very clearly embarrassed. "You had people watching me and they thought I would commit suicide?" he asked quietly. "I wouldn't have come back if they didn't." Sherlock replied. John looked like he wanted to argue, but he held his tongue, saying nothing.

"If you don't mind, John, I'm going to leave so that Sebastian and his snipers have no reason to target you. Before I go, I'd like to give you a few tips. Never sleep somewhere where you can be viewed through a window. Keep the door locked and bolted whenever you are not going in or out. Most importantly, you and Mrs. Hudson should never go anywhere alone." Sherlock said. John replied, "I understand your reasons, but you've got to stay! Come on; at least for now!" Sherlock considered it for a moment. "Very well, but if any of the sniper come to call, I will leave and go back to my present flat." John looked grateful. "Thank you, Sherlock. Tomorrow, we can catch up." he replied. "Well... I'm going to go read. I'd started a book and had been about to read it when you got back." Sherlock nodded, and went to his old bedroom. It had hardly changed at all, save a thin layer of dust on the walls. With a little smile, he sat down on the bed, running a hand over the blanket. Despite what Sherlock had done, despite the fact John had thought him to be dead, John had still kept his room tidy. "Thank you John." he whispered to himself, bringing out his laptop which remained as well. He opened it, and logged into John's blog. The log-in info hadn't changed, then. He typed up a return.

-Sherlock Returns- he typed up the title, and clicked enter. -Sherlock Holmes had returned, alive. After two years of everyone thinking he was a fake, a fraud, and dead, he comes back unscathed. Want to know how? Go to www. thescienceofdeduction .com . I'll tell you how I did it. -SH- he typed, and posted it. All that was left was to wait. In a minute, there was already a reply. -Sherlock Holmes is alive? Impossible. No way that's you.- they had replied. Sherlock commented back. -It is me, we can do a video chat if you don't believe me. -SH- In less than a minute, they had replied again. -Fine. You should record it and put it up here afterwards.- Sherlock set up Skype, and waited for the request. A few minutes later, he got a chat request. He accepted it. On the screen, he saw a girl. She had short, choppy hair of a ginger color, cut very short but not recently, as it had grown out. She was wearing a light amount of white eyeshadow, light pink blush applied sparingly, and lip gloss. Her shirt was red plaid. Sherlock made his observations about her as she pursed her lips. "That's not possible." she said. It didn't take Sherlock hardly a second to figure out who she was. "Kitty Riley. Bet you're disappointed." Sherlock said coolly. "You thought you'd had the best scoop, but it was really a lie. Just want you to know." Her face reddened. "How did you do it?" she asked, irked. "I'm not about to tell you. I'm not about to give you the biggest story since the fake one Moriarty fed you." he replied, his voice cold. "It's not like I want anything to do with you. I'm just curious." she said, frustration and agitation showing clearly on her face.

Sherlock leaned back with a smirk on his face. "Ever since you posted that rubbish article about me because I wouldn't give you an interview, you lost any chance to learn anything I would have shared with you." he said, clearly enjoying saying those words. "Well if you give me an interview this time, I can help clear your name." she said hurriedly. Sherlock snorted. "You, Riley, are ridiculous. How do I know you're not going to take my words and twist them? No, you may not have an interview. I'm sorry if my return disappoints you, but you'll have to stick with posting that I'm back, without the details, just like all the other reporters have to." Kitty pursed her lips and crossed her arms. "I gave you your chance to have me be on your side. You turned me down. Did you expect I was just going to take that? Especially when a man with seemingly untouchable credibility comes along and gives me the most incredible story London's seen for some time? Honestly Sherlock, you were supposed to be smart." she replied. "I don't side with someone who would turn against me do easily." Sherlock said icily, leaning forward so that his face was close to the screen. "And we're done here." he said. As she began to protest, he left the conversation and closed Skype. He'd gotten all of that recorded. It would go both on John's blog and on his website. Proof that he was alive, and the same as ever, proof that he had never been a fraud. John came into his room quickly a few minutes later.

"Sherlock, what have you done? Suddenly my blog is blowing up with comments and I find that you've logged into my account and caused a commotion. Why would you do that? I mean, I approve of you posting that video of you and Kitty talking. You have every right to clear your name. But now every time someone posts an "OMG" or, "That's impossible," I hear it on my computer." John said querulously. Sherlock gave John a piercing glare. "I want people to know the truth about me before something happens that causes me to die again with people still thinking I was a fraud. Not like I give a damn about what they think, but it can get annoying having to ignore people's jibes." Sherlock said. John looked as though he was contemplating this. "Fine, but _ask _next time." he said sternly. Sherlock nodded noncommittally.

The next few hours passed without incident. Sherlock had been reviewing cases that hadn't been in the news, and biting his tongue when he saw either how long it took for them to solve a case or how many cases were dropped. Sherlock went to bed at 10, and John followed some time later. Soon, the whole house was quiet and peaceful. Nothing to interest Sherlock if he was to wake up.

* * *

A man was in a building of close proximity to 221B Baker Street. He'd assembled his sniper riffle, and was stationed by an open window, aiming at 221B. It was important for him to remain throughout the night, because his target could be very unpredictable. Soon, he'd revel in his sweet revenge, dreamed up by his own imagination. All that was left to do was wait.


	4. Chapter 4

Sherlock: Through the Haze (Chapter 4)

_*I do not own Sherlock, please do not steal. If you like, review and favorite. :)*_

Sherlock awoke the next morning, and immediately got dressed. He checked his phone for new messages and his e-mail right after sitting down in his chair in the living room. Nothing new. Guess everything was quiet over at Scotland Yard. That, or they didn't want him back just yet. Shrugging, he picked up his violin. Closing his eyes, he ran a hand over it. He'd played it yesterday, and he was dying to play it again. He couldn't, though, until John awoke. He picked up his laptop again, and this time scrolled through news feeds. There was one, he came across, that made his blood run cold as he read the heading:

**_"Scotland Yard Detective Inspector, Gregory Lestrade, Found Dead In His Home"_**

He immediately clicked the link. It couldn't be true. As he read through it, it was like knives were piercing him, every word impaling him. Lestrade had been shot in the head, and as far as they can figure, by a sniper. When he came to that part, he turned away, closing his eyes for a moment with a dangerous air of unnatural calm. Then he turned back, enraged, slamming his hands down on the chair. It was him... Moran... The petty sniper was getting his revenge. "Moran, if I find you..." Sherlock said, and closed the internet browser on his computer. He shut his computer, but not before looking at the time. "John, you should get up; don't you have work today?" Sherlock asked. He heard a shuffling from the other room, as John stirred.

* * *

John was awoken by Sherlock, and had almost forgotten his roommate had returned. He got up brightly, stretching, and got dressed. He walked out, brushing his hair as he went. He sat down at the kitchen table, making a bowl of cereal. "So, Sherlock... How are you this morning?" he asked. He got up to put the milk away. Sherlock looked up from his laptop at John. "I just got up a few minutes ago. I _was _doing fine, before I saw this article..." he said, and turned his laptop around for John to see. John left his cereal at the kitchen table, walking over towards Sherlock with a puzzled look. As he read the title, his eyes widened. At first, he was reading in a very focused manner, his brow furrowed in confusion. As he got to the bottom, though, his expression changed to anger. "That was him, wasn't it? 'Sniped'. Had to be him, the petty sniper who was in Moriarty's employ and vowed revenge against you. It was, wasn't it?" he asked, quickly and angrily. Sherlock nodded, replying, "That's what I figured. But we're still going to have to toe the line, John, as he isn't done yet and he _will _come for you. I don't know whether he wants me to stew in my sorrow or whether he intends to finish me off last, so I've got to focus on you, who I know he will target. We're going to need to set some precautions." John nodded, "I'm listening." Sherlock thought for a moment, before he began with his list.

"First, you cannot go anywhere alone. It is the perfect opportunity to strike if you're by yourself, so never go anywhere alone. Second, stay away from windows as best as you can. If he can see you, he can take the shot. Also, if you have to go anywhere and I am available, bring me with you. I would be better able to protect you, having gotten the scope of the situation. I believe you still have a bulletproof vest. Wear it all the time. It may not do much as far as headshots go, but if they aim for your chest, it will. Remember these rules. One slip up, and you're dead." Sherlock said urgently. In the distance, Sherlock heard a gunshot, and the shattering of glass downstairs. "Mrs. Hudson!" Sherlock said, slapping his forehead with his hand. "I forgot about her... Oh, please don't be too late." Sherlock said, and ran towards the door. "You stay here, and stay away from the windows. Stay out of sight. Remember what I told you, and you might survive." he said, and headed downstairs. He knocked on her door. No answer. The door was unlocked, and he went inside.

"Oh, Mrs. Hudson, I am so sorry." Sherlock said, leaning against the doorframe. Mrs. Hudson was lying on the floor in a pool of blood, a bullet hole in her chest. "I am so, so sorry. I should've tried harder to save you..." he said, and pulled out his phone. He was about to call Lestrade, when he remembered that he was dead too. He hung his head and called instead for an ambulance, but it was already too late. Mrs. Hudson, his landlady, his friend, was gone...

* * *

Sebastian raised his head from his gun, satisfied. He had killed the next one on his list. He knew that he could stop here, but all sense had fled from his mind. He was bent on revenge on the man who had taken his boss away. That, and he was following orders. His list was incomplete. He wouldn't stop until it was complete, and he was satisfied. He began putting his gun away. Perhaps he would do the next one on his list in person.

* * *

Sherlock returned back up to John in their flat. John was all he had left... he had to keep him alive. His job was in ruin, but if he had John, he could push through it. He sat in his chair with a heavy heart. He'd push through, but the loss still achieved what it was meant to: Sherlock was torn up about his loss. He held his face in his hands. He couldn't even read the newspaper; his mind was in complete shock. He'd foreseen it, but that didn't lessen the pain. All he could think of was his sadness, and his hatred towards Moran. A knock on the door a few minutes later shook him from his haze. He stood up cautiously, and cracked the door open to see who it was. Upon seeing who it was, he closed the door, locked it, and bolted it.

"John, we've got a problem." Sherlock said quietly after taking a few steps away from the door. John looked up. "Are you going to tell me what it is...?" he said. "It's him." Sherlock said. "It's Moran, and I don't think he's leaving until I've let him in and let him talk." John's expression was one of distaste. "Why is he here, do you think?" he asked. "John, I could tell with one look at him why he was here. He's here to finish the job." Sherlock said, pacing. "He's probably not working alone. I'm thinking he sort of inherited Moriarty's resources. His snipers, his men, you know... If we try to leave through a window, we'll get shot by one of them. I'm thinking we're going to have to talk our way out of it, but it may not work. If worst comes to worst, know you meant more to me than anything, and I am so sorry." John's face had gone pale. "You think we haven't got a chance?" he asked in a whisper. "I know that the chances are that we don't." Sherlock replied, glancing at the door. "He'll force his way in if we don't let him in. Then, we won't have any chance." John gulped, and then nodded. Sherlock went to answer the door solemnly.

"Come in, Moran." he said in a solemn, somewhat sepulchral tone. The sniper entered with something of a swagger. "I told you I was going to make you suffer. I meant it." he said, and sat down in one of the chairs in the living room. "Of course, you know why I'm here. I can also tell you know what's going to happen, seeing as you told your pet." he said, glancing at John. John was about to retort, when Sherlock cut in, "He's not my 'pet', and you ought to show respect when addressing him. You're extremely petty. I knew Jim wanted a 'live-in one', but I didn't know he'd settle for the bottom of the barrel." Moran's lips tightened, his jaw locking. "You know nothing about our relationship." he snarled. "I know more than you might think." Sherlock said, his eyebrows raised in a taunting manner. "I knew he went that way but with you? He should've had better things to do in his time; I wouldn't have thought he would ever go _there_..." he continued. Moran's face paled ever so slightly. "How could you have known that?" he whispered. "I didn't, but thank you for confirming my theory." Sherlock said with a wink. Moran glowered, the color returning to his face and then some. His face was red. "You're a smart alec, Holmes. You need to be taught how to act." he said.

Moran stood up calmly. Sherlock stood up to match. "Why have you come?" Sherlock asked. "Why ask a question when you already know the answer, Mr. Holmes?" the sniper countered. Sherlock wore a solemn expression. Before he could even react, Moran pulled a handgun from a holster at his hip, and aimed it at John, firing without hesitation. Bulletproof vests, unfortunately, do not guard against headshots. John fell to the ground, dead, blood blossoming on the floor from the wound. Sherlock ran over to him, kneeling and taking his pulse. No pulse. Sherlock stood and turned back to Moran, dangerously calm. "You better hope I don't find you in the future. If I do, you're dead." he said in a dangerous tone. Moran stood calmly, with a smile on his face. He looked slightly deranged. "I think not, Mr. Holmes. You see... I may have taken away everything you loved, but I'm not done. There is still one more special person on my list." he said, and walked up to Sherlock. He whispered in Sherlock's ear, masking the fact that he had pulled something from his pocket, "You should have heeded my boss's words. Because now? You're mine." he said, and backed away. A needle was sticking out of Sherlock's neck as he panicked, pulling it out and wavering. "You're mine." he repeated, as Sherlock collapsed on the floor, unconscious.


End file.
